


Can't Spell 'Highly Regrettable Mistake' Without 'Me'

by Kallune



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Meetings, M/M, Pre-Slash, Season/Series 01, Well second technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-11-02 04:14:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20618321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kallune/pseuds/Kallune
Summary: Ed crashes the opening night at Oswald's. Penguin tolerates it, until he doesn't.





	Can't Spell 'Highly Regrettable Mistake' Without 'Me'

"Good evening," the man says, stiff as a stiff and tall enough to be looming. His suit is dark gray, some cheap polyester mix, and is cut too broad at the shoulders - clearly off the rack. Crisply ironed, though, and his shoes have the same glassy shine as his lenses. There was an attempt.

Oswald smiles his blandest smile at the inoffensively ill-dressed interloper. "I don't recall inviting you, Mister. . .?"

He only met the man this afternoon; his name is still knocking around in his short-term memory. But the petty satisfaction of Nygma having to gabble the entire, "_Nygma. Edward Nygma. We met at the GCPD_,' spiel lifts his spirits somewhat. At least he's not the only one wasting his time tonight.

"Ah. Nygma. Of course." He nods solemnly, as if noting to himself this Ed's vast import. Then he jabs a finger at the door. "I _definitely_ did not invite you. Vacate the premises, if you would."

"It's true you didn't invite me," Nygma says. Oswald sends a lazy glance to Gabe, who cracks his knuckles. "However!" Nygma hastily appends, "an invitation found its way into my possession regardless." He fishes a crumpled scrap of cream card from his jacket pocket and twirls it between two fingers.

_Oswald's_, the invitation says mockingly.

Oswald is bewildered for a moment, then the realization hits. "You dug that out of the trash after James Gordon threw it away, didn't you."

"The laws of probability move in mysterious ways," Nygma mutters. He splays his hands, placating. "It wasn't addressed to a specific recipient. And it seemed a shame to let it go to waste. This is high-quality cardstock."

Oswald heaves a sigh into his brandy. On one hand, this fellow and his accompanying lack of decorum are hardly the ideal invitees to his club's grand opening. On the other hand, his ideal invitee has made it abundantly, painfully clear he won't be attending - he glances at the crumpled invite - the turnout's been shoddy, and, well . . .

"Since you're already here," he begrudges, waving a hand at the seat next to him and, when Nygma doesn't take the hint and take it, snapping, "Stop hovering and _sit_, friend." The, 'Before I hamstring you,' is only implied, and he mentally commends his own self-control.

Nygma sits. Oswald signals to the bartender who plonks a glass of plonk in front of him, on the house. Only the very worst for this unwanted club-goer, who sips his drink and pulls a face.

They've sat there in tepid silence for about ten seconds when Oswald snaps.

'_What do you want?'_ he almost says, but remembering what he'd been subjected to at the precinct earlier that day, he plumps for the safer, "What are you doing here?"

Nygma jerks into life, obviously eager for an excuse to put his crappy wine down. "Excellent question! In return, let me ask you another. _You hitch your wagon to my star and gaze upon me from afar_. What am I?"

Great, another riddle.

"I don't care," he starts to say, but Nygma talks over him.

"A role-model!" he exclaims. "I've been observing your rise in Gotham's underworld over the past few weeks with great interest, Mr. Cobblepot. Your success has been remarkable."

"Keep up with the flattery and I might forget how you just interrupted me," he says, half-seriously.

Actually, why lie?

Completely seriously.

"My apologies, Mr. Cobblepot," Nygma says, "I didn't mean any offense. I can get - overeager, or so I've been told." His fingers drum on the glass. A fear reaction. _Smart man_. "But anyway, I must admit that you're, well - " more drumming - "an inspiration to me."

The idea of himself, a gangland kingpin in the making, 'inspiring' some nobody cop is quite amusing. He's just about to say as much when a stir at the door catches his attention.

When he sees what, or rather whom, all the fuss is about, his lip curls.

"Penguin!" his old employer brays, striding towards his table rather like a missile locking onto its target.

"Don Maroni," Oswald replies, with considerably less enthusiasm. "It's such a pleasure to see you."

Maroni grins. "Look at you. From the trunk of my car to running your own club. The place looks good, Penguin. Hell of a turnout."

Edward Nygma, whose presence had been momentarily forgotten, frowns. "_Good turnout_? But the club is nearly empt - "

Oswald stamps on the instep of Nygma's foot with his heeled boot under the table, and he cries out in pain, nearly dropping his wineglass.

Good. He can't maim Maroni just yet, but this chucklehead will do just fine as a substitute.

"Who's your little friend here?" Maroni says in his obnoxious voice.

Nygma opens his mouth to reply, teeth glittering, and Oswald attacks again, kicking him in the shin this time. His mouth closes with a snap. "A patron of my new club," Oswald says.

"Really?" Maroni glances between them, a long, lecherous leer, and Oswald realises that they're sitting so close their elbows are knocking. He jerks away, and Maroni cracks a grin.

Curse both of them. Nygma for his damnable lack of personal space, and Maroni for the audacity of this intrusion. This flagrant challenge to Oswald's authority. The sheer _disrespect_ -

"Hey, _amico_. Enjoy your evening," Maroni says to Nygma while Oswald fumes. "Have a drink. Sample the fine wines that I so generously supplied." Ed eyes the murky liquid in his glass dubiously. Maroni chuckles, clapping a hand on Oswald's shoulder and making his own drink slosh up to the rim, perilously close to spilling. "Enjoy it while you can."

He leaves.

He turns to Nygma, rage simmering beneath his skin.

* * *

Oswald Cobblepot has been silent for the past nine seconds.

Which is concerning.

Sadly, there is no standardized length of time for a notorious mobster's ominous silence to turn violent. Ed is willing to bet, however, that most scientists of repute would agree that the nine-second mark is the point at which said silence begins to shift from 'mildly discomfiting' to 'an immediate concern to one's health'. And it's not as though the Penguin is averse to violence. Ed's instep is still throbbing.

It's quite impressive: he can _feel _the glare resting on his forehead. Like the point of an ice-pick.

He leans slowly away from the pressure.

"Mr. Penguin," he begins, folding his hands together on the table top to stop them from fidgeting. "I would just like to apologise for any, ah, faux pas that I may have committed just then."

"Would you now."

Ed gulps. Not the most promising tone. "I didn't realize there was bad blood between you and Don Maroni. Freshly spilt, at that. Any offence was strictly unintentional, I assure you."

For a second, he thinks the Penguin is going to stab him. They observe each other warily. It's just the two of them left in the club now, besides a few of Penguin's hulking lackeys and a lone violinist. "A word to the wise," Penguin says.

"Yes?"

"Learn when to keep your mouth shut." A sardonic smile quirks his lips. "Not everyone's as _nice_ as I am in this town."

Penguin snaps his fingers. "Gabe!"

Gabe, a 200-pound gorilla masquerading as a man, stalks over to their table. This doesn't bode well. "Yes, boss?"

"Escort Mr. Edward Nygma here to the door - and do make sure that he leaves. His choice of suit is dragging down the market value of this venue with every passing minute."

_What's wrong with my suit?_

"Got it, boss." Gabe grabs Ed by the arm and bodily yanks him out of the chair. He tries not to yelp.

As he's getting dragged away, Cobblepot calls to him. "Don't feel obliged to come back!" He seizes Ed's half-full wine glass and drains it, smacking his lips.

A challenge.

_(Joke's on him--that wine truly is terrible.)_

* * *

"What was that about, boss?" Gabe asks after he's thrown Nygma into the street.

"I have no idea."

He notices that the invitation's gone from the table. Nygma must've swiped it.


End file.
